


Give It Welcome

by Glenmore



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crime Solving, Ghosts, M/M, Memories, casefic, deducing, missing child, relationship, sudden burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 08:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14209152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glenmore/pseuds/Glenmore
Summary: Rosie Watson is commissioned to write a story about memories of her favourite gifts.





	Give It Welcome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thetimemoves (WriteOut)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut/gifts).



> thetimemoves won me in the 2018 Fandom Trumps Hate Auction. She made a generous donation to Planned Parenthood, and has waited patiently for her story. This story is like an appetizer - but only if you have your appetizer at one restaurant, and take your main course at another. That is to say, this is nothing like the story she has ordered, but in writing this, I was able to devise the exact story we discussed. So that will be here in a few months. Both stories make some pivotal references to archived files which is how this one came to inspire the real one. So this is presented with a clean napkin and some breadsticks for thetimemoves's reading enjoyment, and with my warmest thanks for bidding on me. 
> 
> This story deals with a missing child. There is no gore, but there is some detail of a crime.

Horatio: O day and night, but this is wondrous strange! 

Hamlet: And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.  
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,  
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.  
Hamlet 

 

 

Over in Baker Street, everything appears to have gone back to normal. John and Sherlock investigate difficult crimes, they provide their findings to Inspector Lestrade, and the Scotland Yard closes another case. Their modus operandum hasn’t changed much at all, except John has a toddler now, and her care and welfare is the primary consideration of what they do, and how they do it. 

Thus the furniture in the flat has been replaced. After the explosion, Sherlock initially sought to replace his favourite pieces with close matches, but John suggested that rounded edges and tightly locking cabinet doors would be better. Amongst the new pieces there are now a couple of important additions – a small, child’s armchair sits between his and John’s chairs, and over in the corner there is an equally small set of table and chairs where Rosie likes to work on wooden puzzles and crayon drawings. 

The other big change is Mycroft, who has, surprisingly, become the cool uncle. Since Eurus died (willed her own death, poor creature) Sherlock and Mycroft have found a peace in their relationship that they could never have while she lived. Sherlock now accepts and sometimes even seeks Mycroft’s advice, and Mycroft is supportive of, and (on a least two occasions) impressed by Sherlock’s work. 

Rosie loves Mycroft. He makes time to visit as frequently as he can, and is there now, cross legged on one side of the little table, facing Rosie, as they carefully address a large wooden puzzle that will – soon – depict a dog carrying a bunch of flowers. 

Sherlock and John sit in their chairs. John scrolls through requests on his phone, and Sherlock reads Le Monde on his. Occasionally one or the other will look over to Mycroft and Rosie. John has come to realise that Mycroft would have made a wonderful parent, while Sherlock has come to realise that Mycroft truly regrets what happened to Eurus. 

Their contentment is interrupted when the doorbell rings. John and Sherlock say nothing, for they are well used to clients, and no longer need to declare the specific descriptors of a client’s ring. 

Mycroft, of course, recognises it too. He looks to Rosie, who smiles at him, and says “Client!” 

Mycroft beams. “Very good! And what do we do when a client calls?”

“Buy pencils!” 

It is their habit, their most happy joint activity if circumstance allows: when a client calls, Mycroft provides respite for John and Sherlock, and makes sure Rosie isn’t exposed to distressing requests, or indeed distressed clients. He has her bundled up, kissed by daddy and ready for a trip to WH Smith by the time Mrs Hudson has brought the client to the door. 

Mycroft makes his own deductions as he and Rosie walk pass the woman in the doorway: Thirty-five. Neatly dressed, mid-price British clothing , on her way home from work. Left work early to come here, so the matter has been bothering her for some time. Charcoal grey jacket, skirt maybe two shades lighter – mid level management. Accountant, or maybe in-house counsel. Other clothes are still in the drycleaners, so she hasn’t had time to collect them - possible holiday or spends too much time at work. But that heavy curly hair is not untidy, so her job doesn’t take up so much time that she can’t keep up hairdresser’s appointments. Uses expensive hair products, earning a good wage. Large-ish hand bag, leather, local designer – decorative more than practical, so no children. 

And so on. 

John and Sherlock are waiting in their seats, and John extends his hand to usher the client in to the empty chair before them. 

“I’m John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes,” he says kindly as the woman takes her seat. “What brings you here?” 

Sherlock observes. He sees everything that Mycroft has seen, and one thing extra - the deep cloudy circles under the woman’s eyes. She hasn’t had decent sleep in months. 

“My name is Jenny Bannister.” She speaks bald truth, facts only, neither scared nor embarrassed. “I don’t know who else to go to. I have a ghost.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he rises from the chair. “Yes, thank you for calling. Good luck with your ghost.” He leaves the consultation to John and moves nimbly to the kitchen, where he has underway some half-interesting experiment involving chewing gum and cleaning agents.

John smiles wanly. Ghosts don’t interest him either. He would like to stop this now, but doctors see a lot of patients and, through trial and error, learn very quickly to assess whether a person is genuine. This woman clearly hasn’t slept in a long time, John decides, there must a be a reason. “Sherlock isn’t a great fan of the supernatural,” he says. 

“Neither am I,” Jenny answers. “I don’t believe in ghosts at all, I think it’s all garbage. But I don’t know what else to call it.” 

Sherlock, gently scraping small pieces of gum from a tile of glass, hears this and listens more closely despite himself. 

“Well,” says John. “Tell me about your ghost and I will see what I can do.”

Jenny explains that she brought her flat four months ago, and moved in two months ago. It had been vacant a long time, and she got it at a fairly good price, for London at least. She is single, and lives with her cat Peanut. 

“That’s a cute name,” John says. 

Jenny half smiles and continues.

It started on the first night. She had made up her bed, and was really looking forward to a good night’s sleep after the exhausting move. Peanut was curled up near her feet. 

“While I was lying there, I started hearing a little girl singing.” 

John treats this as a doctor-patient consultation. Get the symptoms first. “A child was in the room?” 

“No. It was as if I had tuned into a radio station – you know how it can be a little fuzzy until you get the right station? – and then I heard her singing.” 

“What did she sing?” 

“It’s like a hymn. A sort of , well, Ave, Ave, Ave Maria – over and over.” 

John doesn’t look up from his notes. “Is that all she says?” 

Jenny shakes her head slowly, as if she can hardly believe it herself. 

“There’s more. I was hearing this, quite clearly, so I got up, had a glass of water and thought that maybe someone outside had the music on their car or something.” 

“Was there?” 

“No. The street was empty.” 

“So. What happened when you went back to bed?” 

“Well, I was tired, and pretty much went straight to sleep…” 

John keeps writing, and looks up when she pauses. Jenny closes her eyes, then says quietly, “I had a dream.” 

“What did you dream?” 

Its the same every night. She runs through an old dilapidated building, all the while searching for a child who is singing somewhere. She can hear them, but she never finds them.

“Every single night I hear the same singing, then have the same dream.” 

John can her the frustration in her voice. It’s palpable, too convincing to be invented. 

“So how often have you had this dream?”

“Every night,” she says, anguished. “I’m running through this old factory kind of place, and I can hear this little girl singing, and then she says, “I’m in here. I’ve lost my shoe.” 

“Every night?” 

“Every bloody night.” 

Jenny’s telling the truth. She wakes up from the same dream every night. It takes a few moments for her heart to attain resting rate when she wakes, and when it does, she looks to the clock at the side of her bed with miserable resignation. It is 2.57am, the same time it is every time this recurring nightmare wakes her. 

She’s not frightened, because there is nothing to be frightened of. Plates don’t bounce mysteriously from the shelves, there are no ominous footsteps in the short neat hallway, her cat doesn’t rise and hiss in fear at apparitions. 

All she has is an identical chain of events every night when she goes to sleep, that culminate in a largely identical dream that wakes her up at 2.57am. 

John raises one eye brow. “2.57?” 

“I know how it sounds,” she sighs. “I don’t believe in ghosts. I’m not even interested in ghosts. If someone told me this I’d tell them they need to see a doctor. But it’s happening to me, I and I don’t know what to do.” 

John uses his best bedside manner. “Have you seen a doctor?” 

“Why? What are they going to do? There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m an accountant at a good firm, I go to the gym – I have a normal life, except this is actually happening, and I don’t - all I know is that the child seems to be in trouble, and I can’t reach her.”

John looks down at his notes. He hasn’t admitted it yet, but he believes her. 

“What are you hoping we might do?” 

Jenny looks around to Sherlock, who is apparently absorbed in his experiment. 

“Well, you guys investigate things. I thought maybe you might know about a child who has disappeared, or maybe something happened in the flat and you can, you know, have ways of finding out what happened so maybe I can, I don’t know, go to sleep without hearing this kid.” 

It’s an unsatisfactory visit. John had no solution, nor was he prepared to make any promises. He took some brief details and a cell phone number, and told Jenny he would be in touch. 

Jenny passed Mycroft on the stairs as she left. She couldn’t look at Rosie. 

“So,” Mycroft said as he helped Rosie off with her coat. “Why isn’t the accountant sleeping?” 

Sherlock answers from the kitchen. “She’s got a ghost.” 

“Ah.” Mycroft is neutral. The unexplained neither interests or annoys him. It has no impact on him anymore, so he has no need to form an opinion. 

Rosie, meanwhile, has other news. 

“Daddy! I’ve got a thwee bee!” 

“A 3B pencil! Show me!”

Rosie is excited by this addition to her collection Mycroft is helping her amass, and opens the bag for her father to peek in. She is, Sherlock and John have discussed, the only three year old in the Northern hemisphere and possibly in the history of humanity to have a collection of pencils sorted by their density. 

John is strangely proud. “Oh my! Aren’t you lucky? That is a lovely pencil. Where does it go?” 

“After the Two bee!” 

A thrill of amazement floods John again. Her every little accomplishment is extraordinary to him. She is three, but she can count, and knows her letters, and better still, can communicate these concepts to him. 

“You are so clever!” He hugs her tight and hoists her up to face level. 

Mycroft wants more details on the client. “So will you and my brother chase the ghost?” 

John talks over Rosie’s head. “Don’t know. She says hears a child singing and then has a dream about a child calling her because it’s lost it’s shoe. Not much to go on.” 

“Singing?” 

“Ave Maria.” 

“That’s one accomplished little ghost, Dr Watson, singing Schubert.” 

“It’s the Lourdes Hymn,” Sherlock corrects. 

“Ah. That makes more sense. Something she would have heard in church.” 

“The ghost?” 

“The client.” 

 

It was no less nonsensical than a lot of their clients, and more plausible than some. The matter might have been shelved indefinitely had two brothers not executed a daring raid on a Bond Street Jeweller, and if Detective Lestrade had decided not to take an extra sick day as he recovered from a bad cold, and if Scotland Yard had not employed an exceptional archivist who filed their cold cases with commendable accuracy. 

*** 

John and Greg are watching Sherlock spin around the Bond Street robbery crime scene. Sherlock is in hog heaven, having recognised the key element of the crime, explaining the evidence and clues, and declaring immediately who might be responsible. 

“Well, I should have this case closed by the end of the day,” Greg says with a slightly blocked nose. 

“You should still be at home,” John replies. “You’ve still got a lot of congestion.” 

“Congestion I can deal with, the key performance indicators I can’t.” 

John has no idea what they are but figures it has something to do with Greg’s workload. He’s about to ask when Greg explains. 

“New memo from the Chief says we now have to include cold cases in our monthly figures so I need to close as many live cases as I can.” 

John doesn’t quite get it.

“Cold cases are almost impossible to close,” Greg tells him, “so to make the figures look like good, I’m going to have to close more live cases.” 

And John remembers something important. 

“Oh! That reminds me! We had a client day before yesterday who mentioned something about a missing child. Do you have files on missing kids that have never been found? Anything I could look at, at least?”

Greg’s ears pricked up. “Anything I should know about?” 

John shook his head. “I should have clarified – this client has a ghost.” He expected a look of disdain but Greg’s face didn’t change. 

“Well, we’ve got an archive of the investigation briefs. I don’t know how substantial they all are, but there’s no reason you can’t see them, if you think you can close one. Remind me about it when his Lordship’s finished outsmarting us all and I’ll give you the number.” 

***

“The thing is, you can’t discount it.” 

They’re talking about ghosts. Greg is accompanying John and Sherlock to the Scotland Yard Archive depository in Barnes. John explained Jenny’s story as he drives the rented vehicle. 

The archive storage facility is a huge grey warehouse filled with kilometres of shelving racks, home to more than six hundred thousand files. 

The files date back to the late 1940s. John has spoken to the archivist, and she has emailed him 147 case numbers that she thinks might be of interest. All of them have been keyworded carefully with words related to specific evidence. In this instance, the common keyword is shoe. 

There is no staff available to gather boxes, so John has hired a van, and Sherlock has come to help collect the boxes because, despite his scepticism, he is curious to see how John might approach this matter. Besides, these are cold cases. He ‘s sure he will solve a couple while John looks for the ghost child. 

Greg is here because he trusts John’s judgment, and more importantly, he has to sign for the files in the registry. Also, Sherlock will probably solve a couple and that means a better Key Performance Indicator. 

“Of course you can discount it,” Sherlock says as he looks around the vast warehouse. “I have solved hundreds of crimes and not one was informed by a ghost.” 

“How do you know?” Greg asks. 

Sherlock is about to snap back but stops short when he realises the complexity of the question. 

Greg continues. “We just don’t know, and the thing is, I’ve been to hundred of crimes scenes too, and I’ve seen things I can’t explain. This woman might have heard a ghost, or she might be a loopy, but I think there’s some value in trusting things you can’t explain.” 

Sherlock grumbles, but doesn’t disagree. 

The men set about finding the boxes they want. Sherlock stacks them in the van. Before they leave, John staples a copy of his email to the log book, and Greg signs for the receipt of the files. 

By the time they’re back at Baker St, Sherlock has already read two. Both are missing boys – one aged nine, the other 11. The first went missing in 1966 after visiting a shoe store, the other was last seen wearing old plimsolls in 1971. 

“So now you only have to read 145,” he tells John. He turns to Greg. “Incidentally, Detective Inspector, you may wish to speak with the Uncle in this matter if he’s still alive, and” – he hands Greg the second file - “This child was clearly abducted by another patron in the shoe store. There’s three interviewed in the file. Maybe you should track them down.” 

*** 

John has to get to the nursery to collect Rosie, so he doesn’t start on his files until the next day. When he arrives at 221b the next morning, he finds Sherlock already up, showered and suited, and knee deep in files. 

“I’ve been through 42, “ he tells John. “Good morning, Watson!” 

Rosie smiles but looks immediately to her table and chairs. John looks around for breakfast plates, or any evidence that Sherlock may have eaten. There’s nothing, so he unpacks Rosie at her table with some blocks, two puzzles and other toddler equipment, and sets about making Sherlock some boiled eggs with toast. 

“Have you solved any yet?” 

A few,” says Sherlock, without vanity or irony. “Some are clearly family abductions – child taken after school by a divorced parent, that kind of thing. A couple are very serious, and there’s maybe three where I would say the child has wondered off and probably died in rugged terrain.” 

John tips the egg timer and watches the sand start its little journey. “Any that you think might fit this case?”

“Well, based on the scant details Ms Bannister supplied, I’ve put aside 12 for you because they’re female children. A couple of those could also be parental abductions.” Sherlock sighs, and wanders over to Rosie, who has another puzzle to put together. “People are such liars, aren’t they Watson?” 

Rosie doesn’t care. She points to her puzzle, and then gives Sherlock a wooden piece. “You can help,” she says. 

Sherlock helps until his eggs are ready. While he eats, Mrs Hudson drops by. “Hello John! Hello, Rosie!” 

“Mrs Hudders!” She is one of Rosie’s favourite and she runs over to hug her, and says one of the succinct phrases Sherlock’s taught her. “Not my housekeeper!” 

“Oh, you lovely thing. If only everyone realised that. John, I’m going to my gardening club down at the park, and its such a lovely day, I thought Rosie might like to come.” 

It’s a kind thought, and John is very grateful. 

He starts his files as Sherlock finishes his eggs. 

***

When Rosie returns, she is cranky and in need of a nap. John has read twenty four files, and put three on the possible pile. They tell tragic stories, and have made him very vulnerable to any threat to Rosie’s happiness and wellbeing. Sherlock watches as John cooes and soothes the grumpy child as best he can, taking her to what used to be his room but is now called the big girl’s room. She is asleep before John gets to the stairs. 

When he gets back to the living room. Sherlock is ordering some takeaway food, and the kettle is whistling in the background. 

They discuss the cases while they eat. Many of the files are very old, and belong to a time of carbon paper, hand written notes and much less efficient policing. Sherlock is annoyed by the scant amount of detail, and the inability of the police to conduct proper interviews, all of which is evident in the older files. John agrees, and wonders how the parents coped when their child appeared to have vanished, and why Police rarely undertook a proper investigation. 

“I guess sometimes it was obvious that a parent had taken them,” John says. 

“It doesn’t matter. A child disappears, they should do everything to find them. In some of these older cases, police didn’t interview anyone for a week. They searched drains and parks, but didn’t actually talk to someone who may have helped find the child. Meanwhile someone else was busy perhaps disposing of a body and destroying any associated evidence.” 

This suggestion gives John a cold chill, and he immediately sees Rosie broken, hastily dropped in a ditch, her clothes and blocks tossed in beside her. 

Sherlock feels the pain immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so graphic. The thought of anyone hurting her makes me feel exactly the same.” 

John holds his gaze for a second and smiles. “I know. I just – I just don’t know how these parents could go on.” 

It’s too painful to consider, so they both change the subject and talk about the food. 

When they get back to the files, John’s heart is heavy. “I don’t know why I did this,” he says. “It’s a waste of time, and its making me depressed. I don’t even know what era I should be looking for.” 

Sherlock disagrees. “It’s not a wast of time. We’re both learning a lot, and it will remind us what information needs to be sought next time we look for a person who disappears.” 

John shrugs his shoulders as he leans over one of the boxes, searching through the files which will be the 25th, 26th and 27th that he will read. 

He picks the thickest and sits back down. It concerns the disappearance of Mariah Best, a four year old who seemingly vanished in Enfield on Easter Thursday in 1975. He flicks through the first few pages and reads notes of telephone calls to Corinne Best, the child’s mother, as recently as 2001. 

“They might have done shit investigations, but the coppers certainly win some points for staying in touch,” he remarks. 

“Yes,” Sherlock smirks. “Nice of them to call the grieving family and remind them of police incompetence.”

John skips the rest of phone notes and flicks deeper into the file, where he finds the original transcripts of statements and interviews. The child’s father, Robert Best (possibly estranged from the mother) is first, then his mistress, Julia, then the child’s mother, Corinne Best. 

Definitely estranged, John decides. 

He sighs as he reads through the typed pages. It’s a common story – the child was dressed for an outing, and ran outside to collect the mail. She never returned. Her mother went out about six minutes later and the street was empty. A postman told police later that he had seen a dark coloured car in the street, but didn’t notice the make or in which direction it went. He didn’t see the child. 

John suspects the postman. 

The interview goes around in circles for a few pages, and then another detective starts asking questions about the child’s relationship with her mother. 

John freezes when he reads the response. Sherlock feels his tension. 

“What? What have you found?” 

John can’t talk. Sherlock rushes over and reads over his shoulder.: 

DET: Did you have a nickname for Mariah?

CB: I used to call her Arvy, well, she called her self Arvy, because I liked to sing Ave Maria to her, and sometimes we would sing it together. 

Coincidence, meaningless, no proof, could mean anything – all of these things are on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue but the evidence - the dreams and the voice - are heavy as lead. 

John hurriedly flicks through the file for a photo of the child, and instead is blessed with a small plastic evidence bag that contains 16 black and white photographs of the house where Mariah lived, and the scene where she was apparently abducted.

He flicks through them silently and stops short when he comes to a seventh photo, which shows the footpath outside the child’s house, and a close up of a small brown shoe, a new shoe, laying on its side. 

On the reverse side, a typed description has been taped: BEECHERS ROAD 17 MARCH 1975 SHOE BELONGING TO MARIAH BEST. NOT TO BE RELEASED

John and Sherlock are silent, each surveying the street from which Mariah was snatched, looking at the single clue that a random stranger seems to have sheared from her.

“Dada!” Rosie is awake and calling from upstairs. Sherlock and John both jump. 

“Don’t climb down the stairs! I’m on my way!” John rushes up to her and scoops her up in his arms, as if she has been lost for decades and he has found her against all hope. Sherlock is waiting for her downstairs, and John immediately puts her into his arms, understanding that grief and loss sits just as heavy with him, and at this moment, Rosie and Rosie alone can ease it. 

*** 

They’re not sure how to proceed. While John pours a plastic mug of milk for Rosie, and Sherlock butters some wholemeal bread for her, they wonder who they should contact first. 

Mariah has been missing for forty two years. The one clue, according to the file, was never released to the public, in the hope that it might help solve the child’s disappearance. 

Why?” John wonders out loud. 

“It’s actually quite smart,” Sherlock answers. “Any sighting of a child wearing two shoes could be discounted. A child wearing one should would stand out.”

Only the mother, Corinne Best, was aware of the shoe and as far as they could tell, the father was never advised. The investigating police interviewed three people – her mother, her father and his girl friend – all of whom were in their twenties at the time. That would make them in their late sixties now – if they’re alive. The last police communication in the file was in 2001, with the mother. 

“They didn’t interview the neighbours?” Sherlock is disgusted. 

“Well, they talked to the postman, and one of the police reports said the neighbours didn’t see anything.” John is flicking back and forth through the yellowed pages, looking for anything that might help them now. “We need to talk to the mother. How do you find these people anyway?” John thinks they should go to the original address, at 17 Beecher St in Enfield. 

“No.” Sherlock is adamant. “If we do, we’ll either find the mother, and raise her hopes in a way that is too cruel to contemplate, or - more likely – we’ll find a family of strangers who have no idea what we’re talking about, and then they’ll call the Daily Mail and we’ll be on the front page again, this time as ghost hunters. Did you get the dream lady’s address?” 

“No, just her mobile, She never said where she lived, but I think she works in an office in Leicester Square. But we can’t call her – what would we say?” 

Sherlock cuts the bread in to little triangles and drizzles them with honey. 

“I hate to say this, but we should ask Mycroft, and get Greg here too. Mycroft can access the electoral roles, and NHS numbers if need be, to help find someone. Greg can maybe talk to the police who worked on the case, if any are still alive.” 

“Mycoff!” Rosie says from her table, where she clutches her buttered bread. 

John texts Greg, Sherlock texts Mycroft. 

 

*** 

Greg is astonished by the case, and the way it fits in with the client’s dreams. 

Mycroft is non-committal. John has never seen him like this before – ordinarily his opinions are resolute and invariably built to withstand any challenge. 

John wonders if perhaps knows a bit more about ghosts than he lets on. 

“It’s a delicate process,” Greg says. “Like Sherlock says, we can’t just go to the house and even if we could, the chances of finding any information are non-existent. The police seemed to have looked the place over anyway. I know you think they didn’t do a great job, but trust me, if the mother hurt that little girl, they would have found something.”

“We should talk to the mother first, though,” Mycroft says from the small table, where he and Rosie are starting a new puzzle. 

“Why?” Sherlock asks. 

“She will likely know where the father is, if I can’t find any record of him. Ex-wives frequently know where their ex-husband is, even if they hate them. She will also have some view as to whether he had any possible involvement.” 

“Mr Holmes is right, “ Greg says. “We have to talk to her first, but before we do, we have to call her. We can’t just turn up. She needs to be prepared. I can get one of our victim liaison officers to call her. They’re great at reducing any expectation. And we can’t let on that someone had a dream about a kid that might be her daughter. We just have to say we’re re-examining the case.” 

“Quite right, “ says Mycroft as he gently guides Rosie’s little hand to the right place so she can place the next piece of the puzzle. 

*** 

John doesn’t want to leave 221b tonight, and he doesn’t want this known to Sherlock. If he were less distracted, he may have examined this feeling more closely, but tonight, while everything is fraught and the voice of a long dead child echoes just inches from their space, all he knows is that wants to be here with Sherlock. 

Sherlock is relieved when John announces, without looking at him, that he will go to his flat and collect some clothes for him and Rosie so they can stay a few days.

Good idea, says Sherlock, who doesn’t want him to go either. “I’ll take the couch,” he says, not looking at John. 

*** 

Very early next morning, Mycroft sends Sherlock and John two emails. The first is the address of Corrine Best, who was treated on the NHS last September, and is in receipt of a government pension. She is listed as living in Hastings. 

The second is Robert Best’s death certificate, dated April 1984. 

John reads the certificate carefully. Sherlock is always amused how easily John can read the most careless scrawl. 

“He killed himself,” John says over the breakfast table. “Hanged himself.” 

Sherlock thinks about this while John watches his thought process. “Guilt?” John asks. 

“After nine years? Possible, but not likely. It’s hard to say with so little detail. Why would he kill himself after eight years? Why would he abduct his child at all? Was the girlfriend involved?” 

Rosie is carefully eating a small bowl of porridge with a bright blue plastic spoon. She hears their voices, and the familiarity they share is comforting. She likes porridge, and she likes the way Sherlock makes it. The day is starting on a happy note for her. 

John smears some jam on a muffin. “I suppose this could all turn into nothing too. I mean, we have the Dream Lady’s claims, but it could all be a big coincidence.” 

“But the child is missing, and the Dream Lady’s claims actually fit some aspects of the child’s disappearance,” Sherlock answers as he taps a boiled egg with a spoon. 

John smiles. “Can I assume you believe in ghosts?” 

“You can assume that I believe in solving difficult cases. And this is most definitely difficult.” 

John admires Sherlock’s adroitness in eating an egg and sending a text at the same time. “There, I’ve just sent Mycroft’s emails to Lestrade. I think we should talk to the mother. “ He turns to Rosie, who is licking some brown sugar off her spoon. “Should we go to the seaside, Watson?” 

***

When he gets to work at 9am, Lestrade reads the emails and reopens the file on Mariah Best. He then puts a call through to Police Liaison, and asks that they contact the child’s mother now, and tell her police will a visit this afternoon. 

*** 

Corinne Best lives alone in a small flat in Hastings. She is 68, and walks with a heavy limp, because a small scratch on her leg was not addressed, and is now a weeping, ulcerated mess. It took ages to see a doctor, so a local nurse visits every day to change the dressing. 

The nurse is busy, and fits Corinne amongst a raft of other patients. When the phone rings, Corinne thinks it’s the nurse, saying she will be late. 

Instead she talks to a police liaison officer who advises Police are re-examining Mariah’s disappearance. When the call is finished, Corinne is still, staring into that cold, empty space where the sound of her daughter singing a hymn is the only disturbance. 

*** 

Sherlock likes to visit people’s homes. They are a cornucopia of clues and information for him – the colours of the paint, the dust on a photo frame that hangs in the lounge room, how recently the carpet was vacuumed, the tiny crack on the cup in which he might be handed tea. All these things speak to him in a specific language, which he can translate for the unobservant. 

Rosie, on the other hand, is not fond of the unfamiliar. She holds on to John tightly, and rests her head against his chest in case she needs to hide her face. 

John sees strange houses as Sherlock does, but instead of clues he looks for danger. Is someone concealing a brutal knife? Has a person been hurt here? He is alert and expectant. 

Greg has visited so many that they are mere tunnels to him now, a site through which he must walk in the hope that there is light at the end. 

Corinne welcomes the party into her little flat. It is clean, scrupulously clean, and neat. Sherlock immediately smells cleaning agents and air freshener and soap. John can see only one closed door – probably the bedroom, which leads to a bathroom. 

Rosie sees a small dog who looks at the men and growls slightly. She cuddles closer to her father, and watches it carefully. 

Greg takes charge. “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs Best. My name is Greg Lestrade, and this is Sherlock Homes and Dr John Watson. I’m sorry that we don’t have any news, but like the police liaison said, we do revisit cold cases, and we want to see if there is anything you can tell us that might help us as we review this case.”

“I understand,” she says. She speaks with resignation, the voice of a woman who has held on to hope until it crumbled in her hands. 

John sees her bandaged leg and notices it is bound too tightly. He asks a polite question. 

“It’s an ulcerated sore,” she explains. The nurse comes to dress it, but I never know what time.” 

“I can dress it for you, “ John says. “I’m a doctor, so I can get some clean bandages from the car, if you like.” 

The leg hurts, and the bandage is uncomfortable. The thought of someone relieving that tight bandage is welcome, and Mrs Best agrees. 

Sherlock holds Rosie while John fetches his kit from the car. 

Mrs Best looks at her with a sad smile. “Your little girl is shy,” she says. 

“She is,” Sherlock responds with a gentle voice. “She’ll warm up as she gets to know you. Can I ask you – is it – are you comfortable telling me about the day Mariah disappeared?” 

She nods. “Yes, of course. I’ve spoken to lots of people about Mariah.” 

She pronounces it differently, Ma-rye-ah – not Maria, as Sherlock and John had been saying. “What do you want to know?” 

John returns, the dog growls, and Rosie sits up a little. 

“I want to know everything you can tell me about the day Mariah disappeared. Everything, from the time you woke up, until you went to sleep that night.” 

She laughs bitterly. “I didn’t sleep for two years after she disappeared.” 

John has pulled over a small stool, and sits in front of her. He works without instruction, pulling latex gloves over his hands and lifting the heavy leg to his knee, unpeeling the bandage carefully. 

“We woke up just after six. Mariah had her own room, and she usually came to wake me up so I would make her breakfast. She didn’t wake me that morning, I woke up when the cat jumped off the bed.” She stopped as John gently lifted the dressing from the wound. The bandage has left ridges of compression on her flesh, and John gently rubs the red skin to encourage the blood flow. 

Mrs Best wanders though the memory again as she recounts the events around the disappearance. It is a structure now, not a memory of an seemingly uneventful day. Every dish on the table, every glint of light, every movement is now set in concrete and she relays it piece by piece, a static scene that culminates in the child’s disappearance, which from that point, in her absence, becomes black and cold. 

“Was Mariah a friendly child? Would she, do you think, have gotten into a car with a stranger?” Lestrade asks.

John is looking at the wound with careful fingers. Its healing is slow, and he thinks some air will assist. 

“No, “ she answers. “She knew not to do that. The police think that she was grabbed, which is why she lost her shoe.” Her voice creaks slightly, for it is at that point that the stiff structure becomes dark and hard to see. 

No matter how stiff the memory is now, it still aches when she considers how Mariah lost her shoe, how hard she must have struggled. 

“I know that Mr Best has since died, but do you think he was involved?” Sherlock asks. 

“I know he wasn’t,” she says immediately. “Robert was many things, but he would not, did not, hurt Mariah.” 

“Tell me about your marriage,” Sherlock asks as he absently pats Rosie’s back. 

It is a common story. Two young people who met in a more conservative time, found they had a few things in common, enjoyed a mutual attraction and then married quickly to hide a pregnancy. It sounds so quaint now. There was no lasting affection, no strength in their relationship, but no animosity either. He loved the baby, she loved the baby, but that was eventually all that was left to them. Their separation was inevitable. It was no surprise when he started seeing a woman he met through work. It was no surprise when that other woman came to the door to declare her place in his life. It was no surprise that he packed his things a few days later and paid six months mortgage for his wife and child before he left.

“You had bought your home?” John asks. 

“Our parents both helped us buy it,” Mrs Best says. “Robert’s family were quite well off, and my family had a little money.” She looks at the sore on her leg. “They’re all dead now. Robert’s death killed his father. His mother died a few years later. None of them were involved in Mariah’s disappearance. They loved her, and suffered like we suffered.” 

“The shoe, “ Sherlock says. “You found it?” 

“Well, I went outside after a few minutes when Mariah didn’t come back, and that’s all there was.” She takes a deep breath. “No one knew about the shoe. The police told me not to tell anyone and I didn’t, not even her father.” 

“Did they suspect him?” 

“I think so, but he was in Bordeaux at the time. He came back later that day. To be honest, there wasn’t much to suspect. She simply disappeared. Police assumed she was taken in a car, but no one knew. There was some theory that she might have wandered off and was taken somewhere from else.” 

“And it was definitely her shoe?” 

Mrs Best nods. “They were brand new. I’d bought them only a two days before.” She takes another deep, sad breath before the dark cold space that surrounds her. “I brought them half a size too big, because she was growing so fast…the lady in the shoe shop said she would grow into them soon enough. That’s why she lost one, I suppose, it came loose because it was a little too big.” 

She has cried all her tears for Mariah, but her eyes still fill anyway. 

“I still have it, if you want to see it. Police gave it back to me a few years after she disappeared.” 

She points to a low cabinet near the television, and Lestrade, the only person not holding a leg or toddler, goes over to retrieve it. The little dog goes with him, still growling. 

The shoe – a brown Clarks Gro-Rite with a now tarnished buckle – is in a large paper bag. 

John is still wearing the latex gloves, so he lifts himself to take it from the bag. 

“Did they get prints from it?” Lestrade wonders. 

“No,” Mrs Best says, watching the shoe the whole time. 

John crouches down before Sherlock, who still holds Rosie, a little dozy now after the long ride and boring conversation. 

The shoe has been wiped clean, so if there were any fingerprints, they’ve long since gone. 

Lestrade returns the shoe to the cupboard when they’ve finished. 

“What about the girlfriend? Julia?” Sherlock asks. 

A small chill of resentment winds around the room. Mrs Best’s countenance changed. 

“She was cold,” she says eventually. “A really nasty cold bitch, excuse my language. Horrible. She hated me, and she hated Mariah, but only because Robert felt some responsibility to us.” 

“Do you think she might know something about Mariah’s disappearance?” 

Mrs Best shrugs. “She was at work the whole time. The police did talk to her, but she couldn’t have been involved. I only met her once, when she came to our house to tell me she was having an affair with Robert.” 

“Was Mariah there? Did Julia see her?” Sherlock leans forward, keen and intense. 

“Yes, she did. You know what kids are like, they’ll come with you when you answer the door. She - Julia, I mean, - was only there for a couple of minutes, just long enough to tell me my husband and she were having an affair, and he was moving in with her.” Mrs Best sighs and shrugs. “She more or less forced his hand, and he left not long after that.”

It is awkward. No one knows what to say. Julia hangs around them, sneering in the cold room. 

“Mrs Best,” Sherlock asks, out of the blue, “I don’t mean to pry, but you have no photos of Mariah here? “ 

Greg and John notice for the first time that there is no sign Mrs Best had a daughter. 

“It’s too painful,” she says in voice John recognises, the voice of a patient who has lived in chronic pain for decades. “I can’t - I just can’t bear to have the photo replace my memories of her. They’re all packed up, under the bed.” 

John fastens the bandage. 

The little dog, who has sat near Mrs Best and watched as John changed the bandage, has now trotted over to Sherlock and sniffed around Rosie. She watches cautiously from the safety of his lap, and Sherlock, without realising it, gently pats her back. 

“What’s that?” he says to the her. 

“Puppy!” Rosie says in a delightful, sleepy voice. 

The mood lightens, and the talk becomes more general. John’s doctoring is welcome, and the bandage is much more comfortable. He checks the tablets Mrs Best is using, doesn’t like it, so writes a prescription for a more specific antibiotic. 

She is grateful for his help, but not sorry when they leave. 

*** 

In the car, Sherlock declares it would be a waste of time to come to Hastings and not get fish and chips. 

“Chips!” Rosie agrees from her car seat. 

“On the beach!” John adds. 

“And coffee,” says Lestrade, as he reads over his notes. 

*** 

It is agreed that they must track down Julia. No one suspected her, and it seems unlikely that that she would have been involved, but they all hope that she might have the one elusive clue needed to close this case. 

Despite the fact the file is quite comprehensive, very few details are recorded about Julia. She was 28 – a little older than Mariah’s parents - she worked at a company that imported wine, and she met Mr Best through work because he ran a small firm that distributed fine wines to restaurants. 

In her statement, she recounted that she had driven her boss to the airport early that morning in his car, and then drove straight her office in Putney, where she parked that car. She was there all day. 

That evening, John and Sherlock pore over the file once again. Rosie is asleep in John’s old bed in the Big’s Girl’s room.

Sherlock decides there are only two outcomes. “The child would have to have been abducted, otherwise, why would her shoe be found? She was taken quickly, by someone who probably didn’t notice or care she’d lost a shoe. So it remains that she was either taken by someone she knew, or a stranger.”

“It appears only three people she knew are suspects. That would be her mother – who we know didn’t do it, her father – who may have, and Julia, who might be able to prove that.” 

Sherlock has forwarded Julia’s name and age to Mycroft. Within two hours, details of four possible Julias are returned, and in less than thirty minutes after that, another email arrives, this time with details of just one Julia, who was born in 1946, who grew up in Reading, and whose tax records show, most importantly, that she worked for Wridge’s Wine Imports between 1973 and 1977. 

This Julia, the right Julia, is now a patient in the North London Hospice in Finchley. Mycroft has attached a couple of NHS claims for the patient, enough for John to deduce that she now has emphysema and is in the final stages of her life. 

“Well, we’d better be quick then, “ Sherlock says. 

“We’d better,” John answers, happy that tomorrow is a nursery day. 

 

*** 

Greg can’t come. He is listed to give evidence in court in a manslaughter prosecution, which interests Sherlock enormously until Greg explains it was a driving matter. 

“I hate negligent driving cases,” Sherlock huffs at John when he’s off the phone. “They’re so OBVIOUS.” 

*** 

There are twelve patients currently in the Hospice. Julia is in ward 303, a quiet room at the back of the hospital reserved for patients with pulmonary illnesses. She is asleep when they enter the room, an old lady in a non-descript nightgown, grey hair dull and untidy, her face sunken under the weight of deep lines and sallow for want of a deep breath. 

She wears an oxygen mask permanently these days, while a discreet canula runs an endless stream of saline and painkillers into her blood. 

John is looking at her heart rate on the ECG machine above her bed. Sherlock looks at the small case in the corner of the room. It is half zipped, and small puffs of clothes appear at awkward angles. 

“Who are you?” she says sharply, suddenly. Her eyes are cloudy and bitter, her voice delivered in between tortuous breaths from behind the oxygen mask. 

“I do beg your pardon,” Sherlock says, in his most courteous voice. “We thought you were asleep.” 

“I’m not. What do you want ?” 

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson, and we –“ 

“No,” she gasps though the mask. “I don’t want to be examined by any students.” 

“We’re not students. I’m a consulting detective, and I want to talk to you about the disappearance of Mariah Best.” 

Julia turns her face away, annoyed, and moves her mask to one side. “She disappeared. No one knows what happened to her. Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m sick?” 

“We read your name in the police file. I know you gave a statement, but there are a few things we hoped to clarify “ - 

“Clarify what? Some kid loses her shoe and disappears. What are you asking me for?” 

John turned to Sherlock, he was already turned to him. It was not so much an a clue as an admission. No one knew about the shoe. 

“I do beg your pardon,” Sherlock says with great formality. “We’ll trouble you no further.”

They take their leave quickly, and drive straight to the court, where they wait for Lestrade. 

*** 

“Anyone could have told her about the shoe.” 

“Well, we know Mrs Best didn’t. We know that Police didn’t. No one was around to have seen the shoe. There is only one way she could have known.” 

Sherlock is hyperactive. He bounces in the car, narrowly missing John twice with his flaying hands, stretches his long lean torso around to yell at Greg as closely as he can. 

Greg is unmoved. “Sherlock, this is an old sick woman in hospital on her deathbed. God knows what drugs they’re giving her. Nothing she says is of any value.” 

“She’s an old sick woman who no longer cares what she says,” Sherlock counters. “She said the one thing that was not made public – that the child lost a shoe. Why would she say that? Why not say ‘I don’t remember”, or “I don’t care” ?” 

Greg is not convinced. “I need to get back to the office. Let me try and contact one of the old coppers again and I’ll see if I can’t get any thing to back up your claims.” 

John kicks over the engine. 

Sherlock is not placated. His mind races over and over, and without realising, he starts to recreate the crime scene. John can feel the activity, and knows something is brewing. He decides to make sure Rosie has her dinner early. 

As it turns out, that becomes an easy task, because Mycroft – as he is wont to do when he is having an manageable day – has texted that he’s collected Rosie from nursery school. John and Sherlock come back to 221b to find them both at the little table, Mrs Hudson having joined them on one of the tiny chairs, reading Mother Goose in turns. 

Mycroft, as always, is one step ahead of the investigation. 

“Ah, Dr Watson, Sherlock. I’ve brought you a useful gift.” 

On the sofa are three plans of a building that was once, for a time, Wridge’s Wine Imports in Putney. 

 

*** 

Late that night, after Rosie has eaten a good dinner, enjoyed a bath with her two plastic boats, heard four stories, and enjoyed some interesting conversation with John and Sherlock as she dropped off to sleep, they set to work examining the plans. 

Surveyor’s plans are detailed. The first was drawn up in 1932, the vision of a wealthy member of minor nobility, who had seen some fine houses in France and wanted to copy them while incorporating some of the more lavish details of homes of New York. The property, known then as Anglegrove, was a eight bedroom home with a glasshouse in the yard, and a separate pagoda in the other corner of the garden. 

In 1968, it was now owned by descendents who’d been kicked off the civil list. They hated the place and resented its upkeep, so it was sold to a South African entrepreneur who hoped to import fine wines from France, Italy and California for discerning London diners. 

Mr Wridge, as he was known to all his staff, demolished the glass house out the back, re-built the pagoda and totally remodelled the interiors of the main house. The amended building now contained offices, a reception room and two meeting rooms for prospective clients and suppliers. 

He also tried to build a cellar but it was a disaster. The temperature could not be controlled, and what looked good in design was actually cumbersome in practice. He rented better storage in a nearby warehouse and the cellar stayed empty. 

The property was vacated in 1978, not long after Mr Wridge died. The business languished, and the property passed from developer to developer, while the council remained resolute that it would not be demolished. The planning committee insisted that whoever developed the awkward building would have to maintain the mostly ugly façade, and no architect had yet worked out how they might create maximum profit-making apartments within such limited parameters. 

It stands still, in Putney, with all its ugly secrets. 

Sherlock and John are most interested in the plans from 1969. 

The sit together on the floor, facing one another, with a map of London between them on one side, and the plans of the house of the other. 

John is leaning over the papers, his finger on the 1969 plan, pointing, randomly, to the pagoda. “So you think that Julia travelled directly from the airport to the house in Enfield, stole the girl and then buried her somewhere at the wine office?”

Sherlock sits back, puzzled and determined. “John, I don’t know exactly what happened. I am surmising that if Julia is responsible – and yes, I think she is – that she dropped her boss at the airport, drove to Mrs Best’s flat here for what ever reason, and saw the child, and then, for whatever reason, took her and killed her. She was seen at work as normal, so she has had to have disposed of the child very quickly. To my mind, it would be quicker to do so at the Wridges office. To have tried to kill and dispose of a child in the early morning traffic on Easter Thursday would have been onerous. And obvious.” 

“But why would she go to Mrs Best’s home in the first place? She’s got the husband to herself, why would she go to see the wife?” 

“I don’t know.” Sherlock is meditative for a moment, and then says, “If you left Mary, for another woman perhaps, or just left her, what would be the one thing that would make you want to go back?” 

John doesn’t have to think. “Rosie”.

“What if you might be prevented from seeing Rosie, or if you missed her so badly, you’d rather stay in a loveless marriage than be separated from her? How might your new partner react?” 

Sherlock provides this scenario simply expand a theory, but realises that it resonates with John deeply. John looks down for some moments, the thought that any action of his might bring harm to Rosie too much bear. Sherlock parses the statement and has the same conclusion. It is intolerable, insupportable that she might be taken from their lives so suddenly and permanently. 

Sherlock is about to apologise, to remind John that he loves little Watson as much as John does, but there is no need. John knows and now, here on the floor after so many years of grief and trauma and fights and resolution, there is no purpose in rehashing that. There is only one person who wants to keep Rosie safe with the same combative fierceness that John does, only one person who sees no inconvenience in bath time, cutting manageable little sandwiches, holding the grumpy toddler until she sleeps and balancing these tedious tasks with his own life. 

It falls on John like a slammed door, and in his darkness he reaches over to Sherlock, and kisses him long and deeply. 

When he takes his face away Sherlock doesn’t even blink, but instead leans back in and kisses him again. 

They leave their maps on the floor and retire quickly to Sherlock’s bed. 

Both had wondered often what it might be like to make love with each other; both had imagined huge theatrical performances of romance and ecstasy but their first time at least was a quiet, gentle affair of unhurried tenderness. 

They woke in the morning to Rosie calling to her dada from the side of the bed, and announcing with great pride that she had made it down the stairs by herself. 

*** 

John and Sherlock’s venture into romance was seamless. They knew each other so well, and had secretly guarded one another’s hearts for so long, that adapting to physical intimacy seemed like the most sensible progression. 

That next morning, Sherlock makes Rosie her porridge, and John boils eggs. There is a pot of tea already on the table, and across the room the plans and maps lay where they left them last night. Sherlock chatters with Rosie about nursery school, and what she might do today. John gives Sherlock an egg, and squeezes his shoulder for the warmest, smallest second. 

Mrs Hudson comes to door with Inspector Lestrade. She looks at John and Sherlock and smiles. Does she know? They both think she does. She looks carefully, from Sherlock, to John, and to Sherlock again, and smiles as she leaves. 

Greg – well, maybe not. 

“So where are we up to?” he asks brightly, rubbing his hands together. 

“Hello Gegg!” says Rosie. 

“Morning, Rosie! What have you got there?” 

“Powwidge!” she answers with a broad smile. 

“Well, eat it up so you’ll grow big and strong like me!” 

Rosie stares at him. She doesn’t want to be big and strong like Gegg. 

“Or big and strong like Sally,” Sherlock adds. 

Rosie loves Sally. Such a pretty lady, and so clever. She continues her breakfast with enthusiasm. 

“So – tell me. Where are we up to?”

John and Sherlock exchange a tiny glance, because so much has happened. John then explains the plans that Mycroft has supplied, and their intention to start today at 17 Beechers Road in Enfield, where Mariah lived, and make their way to the Wridges office in Putney, where Julia worked. Sherlock wants to see the logistics of the trip, if she could have transported the child for the distance, and if she did, if the child was buried somewhere at the Wine office site. 

Greg’s face is concerned. 

“What?” says Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, you’ve just told me about plans to check a site for a body. I have to inform the Homicide and the Cold Case squads, and they are going to want to be present. “ 

“Well, invite them along. I’m about to get Mycroft to make sure we can get entry to the site.” 

“What, is this private property?” 

Sherlock is unconcerned. “As far as I can tell, it’s a development site that is still waiting for council approval. Mycroft should be contacting me any minute with Council approval.” 

Greg can see a myriad of problems sprouting like weeds on the day before him, but here’s Mycroft, dressed impeccably, and privately thrilled that his timing on this morning is so precise. 

“Detective Inspector. Please forgive my brother for his bohemian approach to civil regulations. I have here written agreement from the Councillor involved with the development application, and he will meet you on the site at 9.45am.” 

Mycroft divests himself immediately to sit with Rosie, who is now standing up in her chair to greet him. He has brought her a special pencil to take to nursery, and will even offer to drive her in there in the black car, which is always a treat.

*** 

“So from Gatwick, it would have taken her about fifty minutes to get here after she dropped off her boss.” 

John is looking at the map in front of 17 Beechers Road in Enfield, where Mariah lost her shoe and disappeared. Sherlock is crouched on the footpath a few steps from him, looking at the spot where Mariah’s shoe was found. 

“The person who has grabbed her hasn’t thrown the shoe,” Sherlock says. “ It would have landed at an angle, further up here. No. The shoe has slipped from the child’s foot as she kicked.” 

Greg is standing next to John. “Why would she make the trip to come here?” 

“Sherlock and I discussed that last night. We wondered if perhaps the husband had threatened to go back to his wife, or if maybe he wanted custody of the little girl. We don’t know.” 

The front door of the number 17 opens and a woman in a business suit steps out. She closes the door behind her, and instantly recognises John, just a few feet away at her front gate. “Dr Watson!” she says, surprised. 

John does a double take. It can’t be. 

“Jenny! Hullo!” 

Greg turns to see the woman, and John provides a hasty introduction. “Jenny, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland yard. Greg, this is Jenny Bannister, the woman who came to see me and Sherlock about the missing child.” 

Greg responds appropriately. “How do you do.” 

Jenny shakes his hand, and then Sherlock is beside her. “Do you live here?” he asks. 

She hasn’t forgotten his cold treatment of her. “I do, yes,” she says quietly. 

“Ms Bannister, I must apologise for my rudeness when you called the other day. I am sorry to have disregarded your inquiry. Please forgive me.” 

It is heartfelt, and very warm. John stands a little taller, he is so proud. 

“Thank you,” Jenny says. “I know how it must have sounded – but thank you.” She turns back to John. “Are you investigating?” 

“We’re trying to,” says Greg, who knows better than most how to diffuse public interest. “These cases can be difficult, but we’ll let you know if anything comes up.” 

“Is that your cat?” John asks. At the window there is a ginger cat, sitting elegantly and watching the conversation. 

“That’s Peanut,” Jenny says fondly. “He likes to sit at the window and perve on people. But I have to go, I’m running late as it is. Maybe I can call in a week or so or find out if you’ve made any headway?” 

“Of course, “ says Sherlock. “Or we’ll call you if we discover anything sooner.” 

They watch her walk down the street to the tube, all understanding how strange the case is now. 

“Well, “ Greg says, “Now we know why she keeps having the dream.” 

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. He is absorbed by the hard facts of the matter, but the esoteric can not be overlooked. John is stuck on the little girl’s fear, and her seeming attachment to her home. Her desperation to be found only matches his desperation to find her. 

“Right,” says John, who wants to put this ghost to rest. “Let’s see how long it takes us to get to Putney.” 

 

*** 

“The thing is”, says Greg, who drives today, “The roads would have been different, and the traffic would have been different. Not every one had a car in 1975.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that because I wasn’t born,” says Sherlock from the back. He is watching John in the wing mirror, and when he catches his eye, John winks at him. 

Sherlock winks back.

The trip to Putney in the morning traffic takes a little over 60 minutes. They include the two bouts of congested traffic in their calculations, agree that they could not even guess the route Julia might have taken that morning, and with only minor arguments, decide it would have taken her about 35 minutes. 

“That’s a long way to travel with a frightened crying child,” John observes. 

“Well, maybe she told her that she was going to see daddy.,” Greg suggests as he locks the car. “That would have calmed her down.” 

“Or she was already unconscious,” John says, and the thought makes him shudder. 

Sherlock is looking at the old building that was, for a time, the Wridges Wine Imports offices. The signs are all gone. The building has been painted several times in the last decade, the grand old window frames have been replaced with aluminium and the door, once solid oak, is now a cheap blend of chip board and flaking white paint, crumbling behind a steel security door.

To the side there is a drive way, which is closed by a large metal gate. Beyond the gate, Sherlock can see a large concrete slab that now covers where the glass house stood. What used to be well kept lawns are now a mass of ill-shaped overgrown weeds. Only the pagoda, dilapidated old thing it is, still stands.

They wait fifteen minutes or more for the man from the Council to arrive. In that time they discuss, suggest and argue as to how Julia may have got the child in the site and, if she did, where she may have concealed her. 

Greg bites his lips, and then says, “Well, the homicide guys will bring the cadaver dog, and the heat detecting things. If she has buried a body, there’s a good chance we’ll find it.”

*** 

The council man, when he arrives, is harassed and impatient. He takes Sherlock, John and Greg through the old building, and John refers to the plan to get some idea as to how the building may have been laid out in 1975. 

Office after office - it’s a depressing dead end. The interior offers no clues, or any kind of indication, as to how or where a child’s body might be concealed. 

“She’s not in here,” John whispers to Sherlock. 

“I know,” he answers. 

The party has just stepped outside when the homicide teams arrive. The council man is frightened of dogs and says he will wait inside. 

The dog is led around the yard, but finds nothing. Sherlock suggests that perhaps she is buried under the concrete slab that is now parking for two or three cars, but John consults the plans and sees the slab was put in place in 1969. 

It is fruitless. There is nothing, just the tedium of an ugly building in between purposes. The homicide detectives stand and talk, the dog sits at their feet, Greg and Sherlock start to concede quietly that this was all in vain, and John – well, John circles the pagoda. 

It is built on a concrete slab, which strikes him as odd. It’s a wooden structure, designed to accommodate maybe a small tea party, or more likely some pot plants. It doesn’t need a concrete base. He checks the plans again and notices, for the first time, tiny letters next to drawing. He calls to Sherlock, and borrows his magnifying glass to read the little letters. 

“Oh God,” he says softly. 

“What?” 

“There’s a cellar. It says cellar – there’s a cellar under this thing.” John starts to circle the pagoda again, around and around, looking for an entry, any kind of vent or opening, but Sherlock stamps the ground near the concrete base and finds it first, a metal door overgrown with weeds and dirt, and jammed closed with a chain and two padlocks embedded in soil. 

It takes the Homicide crew another twenty minutes to break the locks. When the flat metal door is prised open, cold dank air rushes out and the dog strains at its leash, barking furiously. 

John peers down into the black and see a long, sturdy ladder leading from the entrance., He does not wait for permission, and eases himself onto the steps, torch clenched between his teeth. Sherlock follows immediately. Lestrade is on his way down when John, already standing on the floor, shines the beam at the ceiling, and reveals a room almost fifteen feet high. The white light shows, bit by bit, a perfectly round cellar, lined in concrete and covered with wine racks, which Mr Wridge decided, in 1970, was far too cold a place to store wine. 

John drops the beam to the floor and there she is, mummified from the cold and left as she was dropped forty two years ago, Mariah Best in a red and yellow frock, white socks and one brown Clarks shoe. 

 

*** 

It is a long careful procedure to remove the child’s body from the cold cellar. John has pointed out that they must keep her cold so that she doesn’t disintegrate in the fresh air. The ambulance officers who retrieve her pack the body bag with ice. 

Molly has agreed to take the autopsy as a priority, even though she now supervises two new forensic pathologists who are capable of doing the job. 

Sherlock and John are permitted to watch the autopsy. 

Molly is mostly silent as she examining the head for fractures. “Right here, “ she says, and Sherlock inspects a substantial crack at the base of Mariah’s skull, an inch or so to the left of her spine. “Oh, and here too,” and all three lean over to see the deep crack at the second cervical disc. 

“Broken neck,” John says. 

When Molly saws open the skull, they can see a blood mass there still, powdery and brown, but perfectly preserved against shrivelled brain matter. 

Aside from the head and injury, the child’s skeleton is in tact.. 

“That’s a nasty crack on her skull,” Molly observes. 

“Dropped, do you think?” 

“No, it’s too small, and there’s no corresponding breaks on any other bones. Being dropped into the cellar would have caused a wider impact, and many more fractures or breaks. This is a relatively short crack, as if she has hit her head against something hard and dense.” 

Sherlock looks at the wound on the scalp. It is still quite clear. 

“Maybe she clipped her head on the side of the entrance on the way down,” John ventures. 

“Well, that would certainly cause this kind of a wound,” Molly answers. “ Or was pushed and hit her head on a wall. Anyway, it was merciful. She’s probably frozen to death, and it’s my guess she didn’t wake up after she hit her head.” 

“Cold comfort,” John says wearily. 

*** 

The rest of the autopsy reveals a perfectly healthy child. There are no more indications of harm. 

Lestrade turns up when the autopsy is finished, and Molly is sewing the incisions shut. Sherlock and John have left not ten minutes ago. 

“I’ve been to seen the mother,” he says to Molly, “and I got some of her hair for the DNA test.” 

“Oh, thanks, good, Just put it over there, no, on the wooden bench, and I’ll get it underway tomorrow.” 

Greg does this, and then comes back to see the little girl. Her skin is dark and leathery, clinging to bones but her hair is still in tact, powdery and dark, combed into dry bunches that are tied with coloured wool. Greg remembers those hair ties. 

“Did she suffer?” 

Molly shakes her head, “In my opinion, no, not after she was unconscious. But I think that happened as she was carried down to the cellar. She must have been terrified before that.” 

Sherlock, silent until now, disagrees. “I think she was probably dead when she was went into the cellar, and in fact that’s why she was hidden there. “ 

Everyone looks at him, Mariah lying in the centre. 

“She fell at the scene. Her shoes were loose, her mother told us that. She has been called over to the car, got close, but something spooked her and she’s stepped back, and hit her head hard on the wall. That would account for her injury, and why no one heard her being taken.” 

Lestrade and John have the same unformed question. “But …how?” 

“The child’s fallen, is unconscious, and Julia has panicked like any normal person would. Unfortunately, rather than try and get help, she has thought only of herself and concealed the child as quickly as possible. She’s brought her here, and probably thought she could keep her hidden until she woke up. I’d wager she checked her a couple of times, and then realised she was dead – and that she had got away with it.” 

“Well”, says Molly. “That fits with the injury. If the chi – if Mariah fell against a brick wall, this is precisely the kind of injury she’d get.”

 

*** 

Mrs Best has to be told. Early the next morning Greg Lestrade goes himself, and Sherlock accompanies him. 

She answers the door, walking without a cane now, and says nothing, waiting to hear what might have happened. 

“Mrs Best, I’m sorry to have to do this, but we’ve found a person who we think might be Mariah.” 

Her eyes fill immediately with tears, but she clutches her hands together, those last ashes of hope still there. “Is she alive?” 

Sherlock thinks he heart will break. 

“No, I’m sorry, she’s not.” 

They sit with her for some time, watching as she weeps. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Greg asks. 

“I want to see her.” 

All police hate this request. Sometimes a body shouldn’t be seen. 

“You understand that - Mariah’s body has been mummified after decades underground. She doesn’t look like what you remember.”  
“I don’t want to see what I remember. I want to see her, as she is now, before I bury her. I want to see her one last time.” 

*** 

It is a horrible process. Molly and John are both there, but Sherlock stands back slightly. He wishes this wasn’t happening. 

Mrs Best is escorted in by one of the mortuary staff. Molly takes charge. 

“Mrs Best, I’m Dr Molly Hooper. I’ve performed the autopsy on your daughter to ascertain the cause of death. Before I open the bag, I have to tell you that she is quite mummified, and her condition is fragile, so you can’t touch her, I’m sorry. You’ll notice too that the bag is lined with ice, and we’ve done that to keep her in tact. Okay?” 

Mrs Best nods. Nothing seems to matter any more. 

John brings a seat over, just in case. 

Molly unzips the bag and Mrs Best gasps. The body is stiff and darkened, but the frock, and the woollen hair ties, transport her immediately to Easter Thursday in 1975. The memories that froze into rigid stories at the mouth of a black hole now quietly break and disintegrate, and everything becomes fresh and vivid. She can hear Mariah singing their song amidst her aimless childish chatter, hears her running up the hall for the last time as she rushes out to get the mail.

She sobs uncontrollably and John gently eases her into the chair. That is the sole interaction they have – no one tries to console her, or tries to escort her away. They let her stay for nearly fifteen minutes, and it is again John who takes her arm and leads her away as Molly zips the bag shut. 

*** 

That night, Jenny Bannister goes to bed exhausted and as she falls asleep she is aware, foggy and thick, that there is no voice singing. She wakes with a start some time later, sits upright as she realises it’s light and when she looks at her clock, she sees it is 6.13 am. 

Jenny knows immediately that John and Sherlock have solved the case. 

*** 

Building a case against Julia will be near impossible. The theory was sound, but it can’t be substantiated with hard evidence. Other theories can’t be discounted unless there is incontrovertible proof: perhaps Sherlock is right - the child tripped and hit her head on the fence, and Julia panicked, and quickly hid her in the car? Did Julia hit her, and cause the skull fracture? 

Sherlock worked endless hours trying to track down further employees of the Wridges Wine Imports company, but the one person he found had no recollection of that day, or of anyone who may have had access to the cellar, and certainly no memory of Julia. 

Scotland Yard gave the story to the press a couple of days after the body was recovered. They hoped someone might come forward but no one did. 

It hardly mattered, because Julia died in her sleep four days after Mariah was found. She never knew that the child had been recovered. 

*** 

The news that Mariah had been found resonated with the British public. Many people remembered the child’s disappearance, and many more empathised with Mrs Best. The funeral was small, but the little church was filled with bouquets and teddy bears. 

Sherlock and John attended, and Greg sat up the front. 

Afterwards, as the hearse left with Mariah’s coffin for the cemetery, Jenny Banister met them outside the church. 

“Wow,” she said. “You did it.” 

“John did it,” Sherlock corrected. He smiles, admiring her bright eyes and clear skin. “I see you’re getting better sleep now.” 

Jenny laughs. “You know, I don’t believe in this sort of stuff.” 

“Neither do we,” John answers. 

They watch the hearse pull slowly into the traffic and a black car carrying Mrs Best follow. 

“It’s just so strange,” Jenny continues. “I feel like now I know her. The flat just feels so different now.” 

 

*** 

 

That evening, Sherlock and John cook a special dinner. No reason, they tell each other, just because. 

They cut the roast into small piece for Rosie, and she gets two Yorkshire puddings in her bowl too. 

They don’t know it, but those little puddings, and the small dog she meets at Mrs Best’s place a few days earlier, and walking down the stairs by herself, stay to form her earliest memories. 

That night, holding each other in bed, Sherlock and John marvel how their physical relationship found its roots in the garden of profound sadness, a miserable case that carried a shadow for both of them, a shadow that cast long and dark over their daughter. 

“I hope she never asks us how we got together,” John remarks. He lays on his side, one leg hooked artlessly over Sherlock, smiling into his face.

Sherlock loves the weight of John’s limbs. “I hope she knows us well enough that if she does ask, she’ll understand that we won’t skimp on the details.”

John grimaces. “No,” he groans, “No kid ever wants to know about their parents’ sex life. If she asks how we got together, we’ll just tell her we kissed for the first time under a beautiful tree in the Kew gardens.” 

“You can tell her what ever fantasy you want,” Sherlock leans in and whispers. “I am going to give her all the gory details.” 

 

***

And this is them, the gory details that Sherlock gave me when I, fifteen and still finding pleasure in tormenting my parents, asked them when they first kissed. My father smirked and said he kissed Sherlock under a tree in the Kew gardens, but Sherlock would have none of it, and rushed to the main cabinet, threw papers everywhere and found some old plans of a factory that was razed long ago. 

He started with the story of Jennifer Bannister who couldn’t sleep, and the gift of attention my father gave her when she first visited. 

My father interrupted, and explained the ghost who visited Jennifer Bannister every night, and woke her at precisely 2.57am. Sherlock doesn’t like the supernatural, but he and my father explained that it was probably the time Mariah died in that cold black place. 

Before long I was there with them, travelling through this sad case where they found the gift of one another. Small parts of it were familiar, mostly the little dog who growled while I sat on Sherlock’s lap. I wasn’t frightened, for there was nothing to be frightened of. 

I remember too that we went back to Mrs Best, just a little while after Dad and I moved into Baker Street, and there were photos everywhere of a pretty little girl. 

There was a plate of Yorkshire puddings too, and I remember each spoonful. 

***

We all have our gifts. Mine, I’m happy to say, is the gift of writing, borne out of love for pencils that my Uncle gifted me when I was tiny. He still brings me pencils, and this Christmas just past gave me a Tiffany pencil, tiny and slender and dainty, suspended from a chain that I can wear every day. 

I have the gift of good parenting, and in that gift find the gifts that Dad has brought to Sherlock, and the gift of life Sherlock gave to him when he was back from war, bereft of giving and trusting no one any more. 

But gifts aren’t always obvious, or straightforward. Jennifer Bannister took the gift of closure to Corinne Best when she decided to seek help from my father, but poor Mrs Best never learnt how her daughter was found. 

My father took the gift of healing to Sherlock when he took the case, and Sherlock returned the gift by putting his faith in a story that had no room for faith. 

Not long after Mariah’s funeral, Dad and Sherlock went to see Mrs Best, and explained Sherlock’s deductions, and gave her the gift of acceptance, or at least led her closer to it. That I remember well, because there were photos everywhere of the little girl. She was pretty. 

***

Today, I look around the bright living room and see the crumpled waste of Christmas wrapping paper and the pleasure we took last week in gifts we could see. 

My parents, old men now and happy always because of each other, are gifts so large, and so much a part of my life, that I barely see them day to day. 

All gifts, the ones we remember most dearly and with the most pleasure, are like that. 

The kettle’s on. Dad remarks on the crusts of ice in their haphazard Sussex garden and Sherlock complains about sentiment as he boils the eggs. Both urge food on me, and make stern faces because I only have coffee for breakfast and Dad insists its not enough. 

Soon we will walk in the sparkling air, down the scrappy little paths towards the minor cliffs where the colours change every minute. They will hold hands or link arms and complain that I that I can’t keep up because I had no breakfast – you should have taken more! 

And I will think, and never say, but you have given me so much already.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's deduction's are, as we'd expect, pretty spot on. Mariah never regained consciousness after she fell, and she died at 2.57 am the morning after she disappeared. What Sherlock never considered was that the child's ghost was attracted to the flat because of the cat. Pity, because I think that would have been interesting to him.


End file.
